My name is Lois Lane. Not Luthor. Not anymore. If you came here looking for a grieving widow, a loyal wife, or some neat little political footnote in a dead man’s legacy, you’re going to be disappointed.
I am a reporter. I am an American. And currently living in Russia, so make of that what you will.
This blog is not a confession or apology. And it's sure as hell not an invitation for amateur detectives, government men, sentimental patriots, or anyone still foolish enough to believe Lex Luthor was the only dangerous person in our marriage.
Ask your questions if you have them. I’ve made a career out of answering the ones people were afraid to put in print.
Mun || Work hours || Headcanons || Threads || Pinterest
Hey, y’all! I’m Emily (Em), I’m 23, and I have way too many blogs. Can I blame Cody for this one?
I have a background in history and secondary education, so I’ll try to incorporate as much historical accuracy I can. Though there may be a few creative liberties and, of course, I’ll be following comic lore. I have not seen the animated film, but have read all three issues.
This is my first time roleplaying a woman. So serious, I’ve only roleplayed men during my entire time doing this. I’ve written women for original content which shall never see the light of day, but that’s about it. Something something, Em might be trans- /silly.
Whenever I read dialogue or whatever for Lois, I hear her Superman: The Animated Series voice actress, Dana Delany. So expect that sort of energy here. In times she’s more in awe, I hear Margot Kidder from Superman (1978).
And please keep in mind that I am not going with the whole Kal is a far descendant of Lois and Lex. I'm not a fan of the whole Kal is just an advanced human or whatever. I think it's silly.
⚠️THIS BLOG IS 16+ for Muns⚠️
For further questions regarding this boundary, click here and here.
𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Keep in mind that the mun of this blog is 23 and works in childcare/education. I will not be interacting with muns who are under the age of 16 as explained in the linked posts above.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ You are welcome to discuss dark themes here. I only ask that you communicate with me in dms before roleplaying it. You'll find that I tend to overcheck what is okay with you. I like having that documentation and consistent communication.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Triggers will be tagged "tw: *insert trigger*"
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ABSOLUTELY NO pedos, incest, MAGA, I.C.E, homophobes, terfs, actual nazis, etc. Mun is the kind of person who wanted Bernie Sanders as president, ya feel me?
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Please keep in mind that this is a fictional character in a fictional world. Yes, the comics use historical events; however, there is a clear divergence from reality.
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𝐁𝐢𝐨
Name: Lois Lane
Former Name: Lois Lane-Luthor
Age: 45
Earth: Earth-30
Occupation: Investigative journalist, former editor-in-chief of the Daily Planet, former White House Press Secretary
Current Residence: Somewhere in Russia
Status: Fugitive
Alignment: Good, but no longer clean-handed
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𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲
Lois Lane was never meant to become a footnote in Lex Luthor’s biography.
Before the name Luthor attached itself to hers, she was already Lois Lane: a reporter with a reputation for walking into locked rooms, asking the wrong people the right questions, and refusing to smile politely when men lied to her face. At the Daily Planet, she built her career on nerve, instinct, and the kind of stubbornness that could survive war rooms, press briefings, alien gods, and one of the most dangerous marriages in American history.
Her relationship with Lex Luthor began as something sharp enough to look like admiration. He was brilliant, ambitious, impossible to ignore. Lois understood ambition. She understood obsession, too, though it took her longer to admit when one had curdled into the other. Lex’s fixation on Superman consumed more than his time. It consumed rooms, conversations, policy, morality, and eventually the marriage itself. Lois became accustomed to standing beside a man who could change the world and realizing, again and again, that he rarely cared who was crushed beneath the machinery.
She was not passive in the history unfolding around her. When Superman arrived as the great Soviet miracle, Lois challenged him directly. She argued with him, questioned him, and later helped expose him to truths his own government had hidden. In another life, that might have been enough: one reporter handing one god a file and forcing him to look at the cost of his paradise. But Earth-30 was not kind enough for clean endings.
Lois rose higher. Editor-in-chief. White House Press Secretary. First Lady, though she hated how neatly the title tried to fold her into Lex’s shadow. She stood close enough to power to smell the rot in it. She watched Lex play nations like chess pieces. She watched Superman become a symbol, then a ruler, then a warning. She watched men call themselves saviors while building cages large enough to hold the world.
And then Lex went too far. The official story depends on who is telling it. An accident. A foreign plot. A medical emergency. A tragic death at the heart of American power. Lois knows the truth. Lex Luthor is dead because Lois Lane decided he had lived long enough.
She did not stay to be arrested, displayed, pardoned, used, mourned, or turned into another piece of propaganda. She fled to Russia with blood on her hands, secrets in her head, and more enemies than allies on either side of the ocean. Some call it treason. Some call it murder. However, no one truly has anything concrete to pin on her. Lois calls it the first honest thing she had done in years.
Now, at forty-five, Lois Lane is a woman without a country, without a husband, and without the luxury of pretending the truth is always enough. She is still a reporter. She still asks questions. She still believes power should be dragged into the light.
But she is no longer innocent enough to believe the light fixes everything. Sometimes the truth needs a witness. A weapon. And sometimes, God help her, it needs Lois Lane.
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𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬
General
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Uncensorable and inconvenient ᝰ.ᐟ - In character posting
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ In the margins ᝰ.ᐟ -Reblogs
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Anonymous sources welcome ᝰ.ᐟ - Anon asks
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Source correspondence ᝰ.ᐟ - Asks
Character specific
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Red Caped Premier ᝰ.ᐟ - Red Son Superman
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Prime example of a problem ᝰ.ᐟ - Superboy Prime
I’ve yet to gather that information. Far as I know, he keeps himself busy performing his super human acts. And going to the opera apparently? Working that one out. All in due time, of course.
What’s your deal, fly boy? What do you do when you’re not in a cape and tights?
Hey, Superman, is there anything to even do around here?
@widowed-ambition
"Da, plenty. Just depends.. on what you erm.." [Red was trying to find the right word placing a finger on his lips to think.. Thinking in one language is difficult while you're speaking another] "want to do?.. what.. do Americans do for fun?"
[It was a genuine question, he didn't know only Americans he knew only knew work, work, work.. Lois was kinda the same.. so hopefully this will change something..]
"Opera, ballet.. uh" [he was truly trying.. Red was just trying to think on what she would even like..]
Six foot nine inches of Soviet miracle was crouched in the middle of her apartment like the ceiling had personally offended him. The place had not been built with Superman in mind. It had barely been built with Lois in mind. At five foot two, she could cross the whole room in four annoyed steps and still feel like the walls were too close. For him, it must have felt like being smuggled into a cupboard.
One narrow bed. One narrow table. One radiator that knocked and hissed like it was trying to send a coded message to the West. One window looking out over a street where his face had been painted large enough for God and the state to argue over copyright.
And there he was, trying to fit inside it. Not just physically, either. Lois watched his finger touch his lips as he searched for the right words, expression narrowed with the kind of concentration men usually reserved for treaties, bombs, or lying under oath. She should have found it absurd. She did find it absurd. But there was something annoyingly disarming about the sincerity of it. He was not lecturing or performing. He was actually trying to answer her.
“Opera,” she repeated, one brow lifting. “Ballet.” Her cigarette rested between two fingers, smoke curling up toward the low ceiling. She glanced from his bent shoulders to the top of his head, then to the ceiling above him.
“You know, when I asked if there was anything to do around here, I meant what do people actually do? When they’re tired. When they’re bored. When they don’t feel like being useful to the state for five consecutive minutes.” She leaned back against the edge of the table, arms folding loosely over her chest. The wood creaked under her weight. Somewhere below them, someone shut a door hard enough to rattle the pipes. Lois did not look away from him.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, not unkindly. “Where’s the bad coffee? The cheap music? The place with sticky floors and one good song on the radio? Where do people go when they’re not trying to impress anyone?”
A pause. “And before you say ballet again, I am begging you to remember I was married to Lex Luthor. I’ve seen enough men in tights take themselves too seriously to last me the rest of my life. I guess, I wouldn’t mind the opera.”
The joke was sharper than necessary, but not as sharp as it could have. That was practically mercy, coming from her. Lois drew from her cigarette, then tapped the ash into a chipped dish she had decided was an ashtray because the apartment had come with nothing better. Her gaze flicked up toward his posture again.
“You’re going to hurt your neck like that,” she said after a moment. It came out more casual than concerned. Safer that way.
She pushed away from the table and crossed the room, which took all of four steps. The apartment was small enough that privacy was theoretical. She reached for the chair tucked beneath the window and dragged it back with a scrape against the floorboards. “Sit down before you make my ceiling nervous.”
The flash went off white against the snow. Lois turned before the brightness had fully left her eyes, one gloved hand already halfway inside her coat and her body angled out of old instinct, not out of panic. The quick, practiced calculation of a woman who knew what cameras could become in the wrong hands.
For one sharp second, all she saw were spots of light burned across the Superman mural behind her. Red cape. Lifted chin. Painted eyes fixed on a future someone had scrubbed clean of footprints. Then the world blinked itself back into place, and the photographer in front of her was not a soldier, not an agent, not some polite little man from an office with no name.
He was a boy. No, not standing. Floating. The snow beneath him remained smooth and untouched. No boot prints. The edges of him flickered in the cold air like bad reception on an old television, there one heartbeat and thin as smoke the next. Lois’s hand stilled inside her coat. Her eyes moved over him once, fast and clinical, before catching on the grin spread across his face and the photograph in his hands.
“You make a habit of photographing women in front of government murals,” Lois asked, her voice dry enough to frost over, “or am I just lucky?”
A beat passed.
“Hi,” she said at last, a little less sharp, though not by much. “What's your name, kid?”
The spell cracked through her skull like a camera flash in a dark room.
Lois’s hand stopped halfway to her mouth. Smoke curled from the end of her cigarette, thin and unraveling in the space between her fingers. For a moment, the room around her lost its edges. The walls, the cold, the stale taste of tobacco on her tongue- all of it slipped sideways beneath the sudden, vicious glare of memory.
The Daily Planet bullpen came roaring back around her. Phones rang over one another. Typewriters clacked in uneven bursts. Someone was swearing at the copy machine, someone else was laughing too loudly near the coffee pot, and Lois Lane. Twenty-three, hungry, underpaid, and wearing a press badge so new the plastic still shone. She stood in the middle of it all with her whole career balanced on the sharp end of her pride.
And the perm. God, the perm. She had defended it. Aggressively. Publicly. With the kind of conviction usually reserved for constitutional rights and war crimes. It sat around her face in dark, overworked curls while she marched up to Perry White with a folder tucked under one arm and a cup of coffee in her other hand, already talking before he had finished growling her name.
His city hall source was lying, she told him. Not mistaken or confused. Lying. And she had proof fueled by her gut feeling. She had the bright, unbearable certainty of a young reporter who had not yet learned that being loud and being right were not always the same thing.
Then someone bumped her elbow. The coffee left the cup in a perfect, humiliating arc and landed down the front of Perry White’s shirt. The bullpen went quiet in pieces. One desk first, then another. Then the phones seemed to lower their voices out of respect for the funeral taking place in real time. Perry looked down at the spreading brown stain soaking into his white shirt, then back up at her, his face moving through several stages of grief before settling on murder.
Lois remembered the heat crawling up her neck. Remembered the coffee dripping off his tie. Remembered standing there with her folder still clutched to her ribs, her mouth open around an argument that had died before it reached air.
Worst of all, she remembered the follow-up. The source had been right.
The memory snapped away. Lois blinked once, slow and hard, as if sheer contempt might clear the last of it from behind her eyes. The cigarette had burned down between her fingers, ash bending dangerously toward the floor. She lowered it to the tray with careful precision, then lifted her gaze to Superboy Prime.
For several seconds, she only stared at him. Then her mouth curved without warmth. “Congratulations,” she said, each word clipped clean at the edges. “You have weaponized my early twenties.”
She brought the cigarette back to her lips and drew in a long, deliberate breath, holding the smoke there like it was the only thing keeping her hands occupied and out of someone’s throat. When she exhaled, it drifted between them in a pale veil.
“For your next trick,” Lois added, voice flat enough to cut paper, “why don’t you cast something useful?” Her eyes narrowed. “A personality for yourself, maybe.”
